


twigs and pebbles

by WingsOfTime



Series: ikael [17]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Gen, Injury, Talking, autism things, most probably inaccurate, stomach injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-08-20 00:58:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16545755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingsOfTime/pseuds/WingsOfTime
Summary: Understanding, generally, is a two-way street.





	twigs and pebbles

“You are… a _fool_ ,” Y'shtola hisses from where she is lying on the ground.

She is answered by a small, pained groan. She groans back, rolling onto her side.

“I have given up,” she declares. “I am firing you. You are no longer our Warrior of Light—someone else can take over until you learn to defend yourself properly.”

This time, a few seconds pass before she hears an answering noise. Then there is the sound of shifting weight getting dragged in sand, and Ikael’s presence slowly gets closer to hers.

“I… am sorry,” he wheezes when he is but a fulm behind her. His voice sounds like dust; weak and drier than the sand around them. Y'shtola would not be surprised if he has inhaled some.

She grunts, and hoists herself up with one arm. Her ankle twinges at her as she moves to face him, but she ignores it. He is dirty, wounded, and about to lose consciousness from blood loss. If she does nothing, he will bleed out and die in this desert.

“Please don’t fire me…” he gasps out pathetically.

She sighs.

“Stay still,” she commands, holding her hand over the ragged cut in his abdomen and concentrating. If she can get the blood to clot now in the worst of the wounds, it will buy them enough time to find medical supplies.

“Please… I don’t have any other friends…” Ikael mumbles nonsensically as she works. She hushes him out of habit, brow furrowing as she closes her eyes and splays her fingers.

Her eyes snap open again when she feels something touch her wrist. She feels… fingers, trembling, wet with blood and clumped sand. They brush the skin of her hand and then hesitantly begin to trace her palm.

“Please…” Ikael repeats.

Y'shtola lets out a quiet, short breath. “Ikael,” she says, “If you want me to heal you, you need to stay still and quiet. I cannot…”

She trails off. Ikael’s fingers are gently entwining with her own. She feels him squeeze, weakly. He mumbles something she cannot make out.

She stills for a moment, and then—carefully, delicately—squeezes his hand back.

“We will get help,” she reassures him in a low murmur. She does not know if he hears her; she can feel him falling unconscious. “And… I have no intention of replacing you. Ever.”

He does not respond—he has slumped and stilled. His fingers, a dead weight, slowly slip from hers, leaving a sticky trail in their wake.

She swallows down a harsh word, and concentrates on healing him, her aether reaching out and soothing his. She works as efficiently as she can, relaxing somewhat when his condition is no longer critical and his body can take a stronger stream of energy without going into shock.

When she has done all she has the capacity to do, she collapses against him, drained. She has no choice but to wait for him to wake up; with her ankle twisted as it is, she needs her cane to walk, and she cannot pull his weight alongside hers. She cannot teleport them either—she does not have the strength to take them both—and they need medical supplies, soon. Things are… looking grim, but they are blessed by the light of the Crystal, and Y’shtola has hope.

Somewhere. If she squints.

When she feels Ikael wake up, she is searching the body of their surprise attacker. Well, _Y'shtola’s_ surprise attacker, and Ikael’s surprise target. His armed, dangerous, and deadly target. Monks are not built for defense, and he paid the price of taking her hit dearly.

“You are a fool,” she says out loud, just in case he missed it the first time around. She finishes cutting the corpse’s tunic off.

She hears shifting, and glances back—as best she can—to sense Ikael slowly get up. She hops towards him.

“Stay still,” she instructs, gently tugging off his vest so she can bind his abdomen as best she can. He grunts, but manages to stay standing, clenching his jaw and reaching for her staff to clutch it alongside her.

“I can get us to my retainers’ apartment,” he whispers. His breathing is ragged.

Y'shtola is skeptical. “Do not exert yourself,” she says. “I hardly think you can make the teleport unassisted, especially as weak as you are right now.”

“Then help me,” he says.

She debates for half a second, and her lips tighten minutely. “I suppose… it is better than our other options,” she concedes reluctantly. “Very well then. I will aid you as best I can, but do not blame me if this does not work and we end up in an even worse predicament.”

“I can do it,” he croaks. His free hand moves to touch her shoulder. It twitches when she steps closer to hold onto him more securely.

“Concentrate,” she tells him needlessly, urgency pushing her words. His fingers tighten on her shoulder, and she feels a tug on her aether, like a hand scrabbling helplessly for a stronghold. She holds it, stands firm, and then he is pulling them both through.

~*~

They land outside a tall building surrounded by flowers and calm night air. Ikael staggers, nearly collapses before catching himself. Y'shtola is about to berate him, concern and alarm jumping in her throat, but he holds up a hand, and slowly straightens.

“This way,” he says hoarsely, gently tugging her—fingers hesitant on her sleeve—before releasing, withdrawing, walking forwards. She follows.

He leads her to one door among many, unremarkable in its mundanity. He fumbles with the lock for a second, reaching for something inside his vest before slipping his hands against the door and practically falling onto it. It opens soundlessly. He stumbles inside.

Y'shtola follows, catching the door with one arm as she limps in. The place seems surprisingly large for a simple apartment, and she can even sense a few rooms leading off of the main one, if she pushes her sight. Ikael must have paid quite a hefty sum for this.

“’m gonna go wash so nothing becomes infected,” Ikael mumbles, drawing her attention from what seems to be a fishing rod hooked up above the fireplace (how odd). “D’you want any… food?”

“I hardly think you are in a position to cook,” Y'shtola says wryly, using her cane to walk over to a nearby sofa. “Where are your medical supplies?”

“I’ll get those too,” Ikael mumbles, already stumbling off towards one of the doors. Y'shtola sighs, crossing her ankles while she waits.

Ikael comes back nearly half a bell later, slow and hunched over, with a hand pressed to his abdomen. Y'shtola rises immediately, frowning.

“Did you tend to your wounds yourself?” she asks, thumping her staff on ground forcefully as she makes her way over to him. “Why would you do something so foolish? Look at this; it does not seem anywhere near tight enough.”

“I—”

Y'shtola is already tugging at the bandage he has awkwardly bound around his abdomen. “Is it that difficult to ask someone else for help?” she demands. “I am right here, and I am not indisposed just because of this foot. You cannot get the right angle for this yourself. Where is the medical kit?”

Ikael does not answer immediately. She can feel his breathing with the hand she has pressed to his stomach. It expands and contracts a few times before he steps back.

“… In the bathroom,” he mutters, and she is already off to fetch it. “Y'shtola, I…”

“Not one word of complaint,” she says, frown returning. “I never mistook you for someone who is too prideful to admit when they cannot tend to themselves. I cannot say it pleases me.”

He says nothing, which does not matter. She directs him to sit on what seem to be a rocking chair, and lights the fire with a handwave. Best to get some heat in the suite.

When he is sat down, she kneels next to him. “I have to get this off, first,” she mutters, slowly peeling off the bandage on his stomach. “I cannot see how effectively you tended to your other wounds, but this most certainly needs to be redone. I will check the rest afterwards.”

Ikael shifts, and she senses a pulse of discomfort. “Y'shtola…” he mumbles.

“No complaints,” she repeats firmly, bracing one hand on his chest. “Stay still.”

Then there is a gentle grip encircling her wrist, and she is being pushed away.

“Please stop,” says Ikael.

Y'shtola blinks. Then frowns, deeply.

“Do you want to bleed out or die from infection because you refuse to get the help you need?” she questions with an arched brow. “Stubbornness is not a virtue, Ikael.”

The hand around her wrist trembles for a moment. It pushes her further away.

“Please,” Ikael repeats, “Don’t touch me.”

Y'shtola is quickly losing her patience, as well as some of her temper, she will admit. It has been a trying day.

“Do not be foolish!” she berates. She pulls away from his grip. “Let me do my work.”

“Let me be foolish!” There is a short screech as the rocking chair is pushed back. “That is the fourth time you have called me such; at least give me an opportunity to validate the claim.”

“You are being juvenile!” Y'shtola retorts. Her frown softens slightly as she feels a small pulse of guilt at his words, but she shakes her head. “Why must you act like a child, hm? Hold your pride for a few minutes.”

This time, the chair screeches sharply as Ikael shoves himself back. “I am not acting like a child!” he cries. “I just don’t… I-I… I can do it myself! I am not a child!”

Y'shtola scowls at him. “Do not make me cast a sleeping spell on you,” she says. She straightens up, begins to move towards him. “Really, this is unne—”

“ _Stop!_ ” The sudden upset pitch in his voice makes her pause abruptly. “I-I told you I-I… don’t _touch_ me! Don’t touch me with your skin!”

 He sounds… seconds away from flying off the handle. Y'shtola forces herself to shove her annoyance aside, to slow her breathing so she can think.

So he does not want her to touch him… due to… _that_. Ah. Y'shtola will admit, she is… inexperienced with Ikael’s particular hang-ups. Thancred knows him and his preferences much better, but… ai, he is not here…

“I-I-I—‘m not—a _child!_ ” Ikael is still speaking in that same tone. His voice is getting increasingly fragile. “I wish everyone would stop saying that! I’m not a child! I’m not childish!”

“No,” Y'shtola says, more calmly—trying to choose her words carefully now, since it seems as if inconsiderate use of the wrong ones has upset him. “I—should not have said that, Ikael; I am sorry. Of course you are an adult, and—”

“You don’t need to—patronize me.” Ikael’s voice cracks, and now she can feel the salty wisps of tears in the air. “I-I know you think I’m… I-I’m stupid, and weak, and can’t do anything by myself.”

Y'shtola’s expression slackens at that. _Great; now you made him cry,_ a sardonic voice that sounds much like Thancred's says in her head. She tells it to shut up.

“I do not think that, Ikael,” she says in a looser tone. Ikael does not seem to notice.

“A-and you think I’m juvenile. And immature. A-and you think I’m a bad Warrior of Light, since I’m such an idiot.” He is sobbing softly now, small hiccupping noises that make her want to do silly things, like go over to him and offer him a blanket. “A-a-and maybe you’re right. B-but… I didn’t ask for this, and I just—I-I just—want you to stop— _hic_ —touching me.”

He starts to cry harder. She is very much not touching him, now, but she does not think it would be in her favour to point that out.

She sighs softly, at a loss for what to do. She decides to wait it out, since he does not seem to be willing to pay attention to her in his current state.

When his sobs mostly subside to soft hiccups, and his gaze is fixed determinedly on the fire, she decides to speak up.

“I do not believe you are stupid, or weak,” she says plainly, shifting her grip on her cane. “In fact, I think you are wiser than you know. Stronger than _we_ know.”

He does not say anything to that, but his head moves minutely, and his aether shifts towards her. Paying attention, then.

Y'shtola drums her fingers on her cane. She is not one for platitudes, and she will not offer comfort if Ikael does not wish her to touch him.

“I am sorry for calling you foolish,” she says. “I meant it more as an affectionate beratement than a serious statement, but it seems my intent was not conveyed. And I… misunderstood your reluctance, I believe. If you… do not want my help for more personal reasons, I will respect that. But you need to have your wounds looked over, Ikael, and you cannot do it yourself, like this. Not properly.”

He does not answer, and, after waiting for a minute, she makes her way over to the nearby loveseat. She sighs softly and crosses her ankles, trying not to feel… overly spurned. Ikael does not want her to touch him—that is alright. She does not think about the fact that he is usually generous with soft touches, or that Thancred would not be having this problem. They are… closer to each other than she is with Ikael. It is understandable. It is alright.

“Use the spell,” Ikael croaks quietly.

She frowns slightly, looking over at him. “What?” she says.

“The sleeping spell.” Ikael shifts in his chair. “I… I’m sorry, but… I can't. Not—I… I-I can’t. Please.”

Her brow clears, and the lingering touch of hurt in her thoughts dissipates. If he truly is _that_ uncomfortable with the idea, well. That is not his fault, and she should not be thinking as she is. She closes her eyes. Opens them.

“Alright,” she says, rising and readying her cane. “Relax, then. I will not let you wake before I am done.”

Something softens in his demeanor. “… Thank you,” he says, barely audible. “A-and…” He looks away. “… I am sorry for getting upset with you, Y'shtola.”

She says nothing to that, shelving it in her mind before reaching out and casting Repose. He drifts off peacefully, the tension in his aether unwinding and going limp.

She drops her arms. “I am sorry for upsetting you,” she says quietly.

~*~

When Ikael comes to, it is to warmth and softness. His eyes flutter open, and he sees fire—safely away. A rug. Fur. There is… a blanket over him.

“I apologize for placing you on the ground,” Y'shtola’s voice comes from the rocking chair behind him. He cranes his neck to look at her. “It was the easiest thing to do. And I found you a blanket.”

He sniffs. This is a nice blanket. One that he likes.

“Thank you,” he mumbles softly. He slowly eases himself into a sitting position, wincing when his body complains. “I… thank you. For… listening to me. You are kind.”

She shakes her head. “I am decent,” she replies. She grips her cane before lowering herself to the rug as well.

“How are you feeling?” She reaches out to touch—and then pauses, awkwardly withdraws. Returns her hand to her cane.

Ikael gently reaches out and brushes his fingers along her sleeve. “Much better,” he says with a smile, which isn’t exactly true in the short term, but he is no longer at death’s door. “Thank you, Y'shtola.”

He glances away, withdrawing his hand. “I… I am sorry I was so… juvenile, earlier,” he mutters. “You… you were right. I shouldn’t—”

She cuts him off. “No,” she says, shaking her head firmly. “You were not. You _are_ not juvenile.”

He swallows. “And… foolish?” he ventures. “Did you… did you mean what you said?”

Her expression softens. She shifts towards him, settling down into a more comfortable position.

“I did,” she says plainly. “I do. Do not ever let anyone make you feel lesser than you are, Ikael. Whether they are myself, a stranger, or anyone else.”

He looks up at her. “You are my friend,” he says, softly honest. “Your… your opinion matters to me. What am I other than what you and the other people I care about think of me?”

Something changes in her expression, and Ikael looks away once more, fingers going to pick at the rug. He almost does not like feeling this vulnerable for this long, but Y'shtola is kind to him, and he trusts her.

“You are what you think of yourself,” she answers finally. He glances back up to her. “What you make yourself. Do not let your thoughts dwell overly on the negative—be as kind to yourself as you are to others.”

He swallows. “I do not know if I can do that,” he says thickly. “I-I… Y'shtola…”

“Shtola,” she says. “If you wish.”

He blinks at her, breath catching in his throat. She blinks as well, rapidly.

“That—that is—if you… want to,” she defends, stumbling over her words in a very uncharacteristic fashion. Ikael starts to smile. “You do not have to, of course. But if you ever feel comfortable enough…”

He takes her hand in his, squeezing it. “I do,” he says. He touches it to his cheek. “I-I do. Thank you.”

He drops her hand. “I… will try,” he says at last. “I will try to do as you are saying. It will be hard, but… I _will_ try.”

“At the end of the day,” she says—Y'shtola says— _Shtola—_ “It is all we can do.”

That makes a smile flicker to his lips. Yes, he supposes. It is.

~*~


End file.
